Bathroom boundaries: Keep your opinions to yourself!

This may seem shocking to some of you but I have a tendency to over-react. Given the right setting, such as mornings, early afternoons, night-time, week-days, holidays, full moon, no moon, ect., even seemingly small triggers will set me off.

Now...I love me a good quote...but there has to be a line...an unwritten-but-strictly-adhered-to-rule that every quote should have its place. And that place is NOT the faculty bathroom. But yet, there it was...a little strip of lamination attempting to illuminate my private world...my solitary refuge...my brief escape from the grind of grading, grumbling, and 4th graders. I stared at it as I scoured my hands...this bold intrusion into my sanctuary...proclaiming that what I was currently doing wasn't good enough. Thanks to tax-payer-funded skin-scouring soap, my now-cracked-and-peeling flesh would be free of germs and bacteria...but my mind? My mind was now contaminated with thoughts of retaliation and revenge. I just couldn't digest this. Who would have committed such a malfeasance? Littering my landscape with a laxative designed to purge the population of its rampant pessimism...?

Obviously, my suspect list led with Erin. Happy, peppy, positive Erin who made my March miserable. However, I dismissed her involvement as I watched her unravel in the wake of the Great Annual End-of-Year Refrigerator Clean-Out War. Self-promoted to general, Erin issued orders, proclaimed boundaries, and took unlabeled peach-flavored yogurts hostage as the school days trickled down. My friend Geri wept as three-quarters filled containers of ice cream were unceremoniously evicted and popsicles were taken prisoner...victims of friendly fire. "Residual damage," Erin declared heartlessly. And while Erin was busy fighting her battle, I was beginning my own.

"If you dislike it so much, why don't you just rip it down?" a team-mate asked. "Yeah...remember when you ripped down someone's Christmas bulletin board in the hallway just because it was March?" added another colleague (who had helped me, by the way. In retrospect...March is NOT a good month for me). "Too easy," I replied. I needed to relay a message. Chew on this, friend. Two Tums would not be enough to sooth this ache. This situation required a suppository.

It was the end of the year. I had grading, filing, Field Day shirt-making, and unlabeled peach-flavored yogurts to save. But instead, I was entrenched in meme extraction...only the most sarcastic, sardonic, negative quotes would do and I bombed the bathroom with them. My comrades, gun-shy now and leery of the loo, began to venture back into regained ground. Though momentarily dethroned, elementary teachers eventually took back what was our's. Peace was restored.

My friend, Zach, a graduating senior, was kicking back in my room as I prepared for the final onslaught: Printing the atomic bomb of memes. It wasn't an easy decision and I admit it kept me awake several nights, but to ensure that such an occurrence is not repeated, drastic measures must be taken. Not quite as drastic as out-right stealing someone's unlabeled peach-flavored yogurt...but still.

"What is that for?" Zach asked, reading the memes on the screen, and his eyes widened as I recounted the horrific tale. A stillness fell over the room and I watched him...this young man that I've known (and trusted) for years. A boy that I once severely trounced in a bounce house obstacle course. An athlete who provided motivational speeches for my 4th grade Field Day competitors. "Forget whatever Mrs. Mosiman told you," he yelled at them, "Today is not about fun and sportsmanship and camaraderie! It's about winning!" A helpful soul trying to earn community service hours by grading my spelling tests. He knew something. With a bit of coaxing (and threats), I was to learn that the mastermind behind the meme was not an individual at all but an organization. Do I dare use the word syndicate? A high school club had managed to infiltrate our perimeter and attempted to alter our attitude with posted propaganda. What a bunch of $*^@! Thank goodness we didn't take it sitting down!